


Frock

by heavy_cream



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Priest Kink, Valentine's Day, Wall Sex, actually more like foyer sex, except not really, priest!mycroft, well I guess technically not valentine's day but it happened at dawn on friday so there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavy_cream/pseuds/heavy_cream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There, in the middle of the foyer in Mycroft’s ridiculous house, stood the man himself, but instead of wearing one of his fine, expensive suits, he was dressed head to toe in a long black frock. It was long sleeved and nearly reached his ankles, and a long line of neat, gleaming black buttons trailed down through the center, starting from his neck all the way to the hem at the bottom. And there at the very top, a pristine white collar stood out amidst the black, thick fabric.</p><p>Lestrade felt his mouth go dry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frock

**Author's Note:**

> Not actual priest!Mycroft, but a cassock is involved.
> 
> Woefully unbetaed. Please feel free to point out my mistakes, I am sure there are plenty.
> 
> For seii ♥

Lestrade had never been a man of faith, hadn't had a religious upbringing and the vague notion of spirituality he’d possessed, had been snuffed out during his first year working the beat. 

Nowadays, the only time he ever set foot in a church was because someone had died and religion was somehow involved, or there’d been a funeral. None of these experiences had been in any way remarkable (well, perhaps the one with the nun and the glass eye but that had been exceptional for other reasons), which is why he was completely unprepared for what happened on a Friday evening when his entire world shifted on its axis.

It had been a remarkably tedious day, filled with paper work and meetings instead of actual cases. The kind of day that, bafflingly enough, drained him more than chasing criminals through alleys and abandoned buildings.

He’d come home then, feeling exhausted and old and a bit grimy, wondering whether to get a bath or a drink first. In the end, he got neither, since it turned out he wouldn't make it past the foyer for some time. He’d opened the door, taken one step, and froze on the threshold, with his hand still clutching the door handle, and did a double take. And then a triple one.

There, in the middle of the foyer in Mycroft’s ridiculous house, stood the man himself, but instead of wearing one of his fine, expensive suits, he was dressed head to toe in a long black frock. It was long sleeved and nearly reached his ankles, and a long line of neat, gleaming black buttons trailed down through the center, starting from his neck all the way to the hem at the bottom. And there at the very top, a pristine white collar stood out amidst the black, thick fabric.

Lestrade felt his mouth go dry.

Mycroft, who’d clearly just arrived himself, (still on his phone, coat neatly folded over his arm), greeted him absentmindedly. The words however, were completely lost on Greg who couldn't get over the fact that his lover, his very _atheist, gay, boyfriend,_ was wearing an honest to god cassock, and he’d never ever, gotten an erection so fast in his life.

“You’re-” Greg’s voice thinned into nothing. “Your outfit-” he tried again, and Mycroft looked down at himself.

“Oh yes, some unexpected field work.”

“Field work,” Greg repeated a bit wheezy because it hadn't even occurred to him that of course, there’d been a legitimate reason for Mycroft to be dressed up like a priest. “Right,” he added thickly. And then: “In a church?” because, really? 

Mycroft smiled, tapping at his phone still. “I would say 'you’d be surprised’ but you've had your run-ins with the clergy before, what with the time with the nun and the sword and the glass eye.”

Greg had forgotten about the sword, in fact, at the moment he couldn't be arsed to remember his own bloody rank because Mycroft was there, in the middle of the foyer, dressed like a priest, and Greg had a raging hard on, and what the hell was he supposed to do with that? 

“Right,” he answered a bit strangled, and apparently he was sounding weird enough for Mycroft to finally look at him properly. He blinked once slowly, cocked his head to a side, and Greg had the dubious pleasure of seeing Mycroft Holmes being surprised. 

“Really, Gregory,” he asked and of course he’d have figured it out in two seconds, of course he would, because he was Mycroft Holmes and that’s what he did. “This is unexpected, I must say,” he continued, turning his phone over in his hand thoughtfully and Greg squirmed. He felt his face flush and the embarrassment was enough to finally unglue his death grip from the door handle. He closed the door, busied himself with shrugging out of his coat, and hanging it up. He startled when Mycroft spoke again, this time right behind him.

“Since when is this a thing for you?” He asked, his voice soft and Greg didn’t move, didn’t turn, waited while Mycroft reached around him to hang his own coat. 

When he did turn, he was a breath away from Mycroft. Greg stared at the white collar. “Since about 5 minutes ago,” he confessed and his tongue felt thick.

Mycroft smiled, delighted. “I must admit Inspector, I wouldn’t have pegged you for this kind of kink.”

Greg made a face, felt his face heat again, and looked away. “You don’t have to rub it in, I don’t know either what the hell is going on.”

Mycroft placed a hand on his waist and Gregory grew tense all over. “It’s more common than you would think,” he murmured and he sounded smug.

“It feels wrong.”

“That’s part of what makes it a kink,” he replied and ran a hand down Gregory’s side.

“W-what are you doing?” Greg asked, his voice shaking but he was already clutching at his biceps, feeling the rough cloth beneath. He let out a harsh breath when Mycroft pressed their bodies impossibly close, nudged a leg between his, and Greg didn't know it was possible for him to get even harder.

“Indulging,” Mycroft answered, sounding calm still, unaffected and faintly amused by it all. It was infuriating and Greg thought he ought to be offended, but he was already rubbing himself against Mycroft’s thigh, his hands flexing involuntarily. 

“You are so worked up,” Mycroft murmured against his ear, his large hand moving to cup his erection. Greg let out a truly embarrassing sound but he was right, he _was_ worked up. He didn't know what it was, the sense of it somehow being forbidden, or quite simply that the dark fabric stylized Mycroft’s slim figure, or that Mycroft had masterfully taken control of the situation. 

Mycroft pressed his body against Gregory, trapping him against the door and himself. Greg felt his head swim, felt his arousal flare even brighter by the unyielding force of Mycroft’s body. He pressed his face against Mycroft’s shoulder, felt the white collar rub against his cheek. 

His pants were damp, his trousers pulled tight, and he wasn't all that comfortable really, but pleasure and heat were spiraling low in his belly regardless. Mycroft’s thigh anchored him in place, his hand exerted expert pressure on his confined erection and Greg was certain he was drooling on his shoulder, trying to sink his teeth into the fabric.

Mycroft moved slightly away, ignored Greg’s noise of discontent, and pushed him back against the door. He took both of Greg’s hands to lift them above his head, holding them in place by the wrists with his left hand, and brought his right one back down to Greg’s erection, pressing his knuckles against the stiff heat. Greg writhed, dizzy and heady with pleasure and lust and a sense that he was doing something he really shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop his own body, couldn't stop looking at Mycroft and his collar, unmovable really.

“I- I’m,” he panted, not sure what he was trying to say but Mycroft knew, he always knew, and he leaned in close again, his lips pressed close to his ear.

“There’s a good lad,” Mycroft murmured and Greg came as if the orgasm had been pulled from him. He let out a hoarse shout even as his eyes went blind and his body shook. His hips kept jerking against Mycroft who held perfectly still, who watched delighted and aroused as Gregory spent himself in his trousers and went limp against the door. He let go of his wrists, waited until Greg had caught his breath, and then gently but insistently pressed Greg’s hands against his own bulging erection. 

“Oh-h,” Greg panted, pressing his sweaty forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. He felt sluggish with the lassitude of his orgasm and yet at the same time outrageously aroused by Mycroft’s demanding touch. His arms shook, his legs felt weak and when Mycroft exerted gentle, firm pressure on his shoulder he went down on his knees obediently. 

“Good,” Mycroft praised and Greg looked up, saw the first crack in Mycroft’s steely resolution in his hooded eyes, his flushed skin. His hand trailed down Mycroft’s front, his fingers bumping over the neat little row of buttons which he unfastened faster than he thought his shaking hands would allow him to. He unbuttoned them from the waist down and the parted the fabric. Underneath he was wearing regular black trousers, distended by his arousal, the cloth damp with pre-come. 

Greg trailed the shape with his fingers first before pressing his cheek against it, and was rewarded with a hitched breath from above. He unfastened the button, lowered the zipper, reached inside to rub Mycroft’s prick over the fabric of his underwear before taking it out entirely. He kissed his pelvis, at the juncture where cock met cloth, and stroked him steadily, spreading the sticky stuff along his shaft. 

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair, let out a pleased noise, and then gently pressed Greg against him.

“Your mouth, dear,” he said, sounding still controlled but his voice was deeper, rougher than usual, and Greg felt his own prick twitch. He let out a whimper and then moved to swallow Mycroft down in one go. The hand in his hair flexed once, pulling the hair tight before releasing it again. He bobbed his head, slowly but jerkily, his hands braced on Mycroft’s thighs to find some sort of support.

“So good,” Mycroft murmured, petting his hair and Greg wanted to sob with pleasure. He moaned instead, and felt Mycroft jerk into his mouth at the action. He looked up then, and the view made him whimper. Mycroft had leaned forward so that he was almost towering over him, one arm resting against the door. 

Greg alternated staring at his face, flushed with pleasure, eyes hooded, mouth parted, and down to to his white collar, to his still primly dressed chest. He moved his hands under his cassock to cup his arse, to pull him forward, and pleaded with the touch and a look to please take it.

Mycroft let out a choked noise, curled his fingers into Greg’s hair to hold him in place, and carefully thrust into his mouth. Greg thought idly that he could get hard again if he kept that up, that he could possibly just come from this alone, watching Mycroft lose control, rutting with little finesse. 

And then suddenly Mycroft pulled away and Lestrade felt a hot splash land on his face, his chin, his chest. The hand in his hair twitched a few times before releasing him. Mycroft knelt down in front of him, took his face in his hand and kissed him. It was messy and sloppy, and he moved to lick away his own release on Greg’s face before returning to his mouth where the taste mingled into something else entirely. Greg reached up, held onto his wrists and wondered if his head would ever stop spinning, if he would ever have a clear thought again in his life. Wondered if it really mattered.

Eventually, Mycroft lessened his grip and rested their foreheads together for a short beat before moving to sit next to Greg, resting heavily against the door. He pulled at Lestrade until he did the same, slumping equal parts against door and Mycroft, his head pillowed on his shoulder. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Greg exhaled after everything stopped spinning, slowly aware that they'd never made it past the goddamn foyer.

“That’s an unfortunate choice of words,” Mycroft panted amused and Greg made another face. 

“Oh God, just stop.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh, and ran his hand absently down Lestrade’s side. “You are the one who keeps invoking higher powers.”

“You are enjoying this aren't you?”

“I was under the impression we both enjoyed it.”

Greg poked him in the ribs. “Stop being a smart-arse. You are making fun of me.”

“Rest assured I am most certainly not doing so. This has been a delightful and I’d dare say pleasurable discovery for us both, one, I think, that could lead to all sorts of possibilities.”

Lestrade, who’d been rubbing Mycroft’s thigh, stopped. “What do you mean ‘possibilities’?”

“Surely you don’t think that I am unaffected by the use of alternative wardrobe choices.”

Greg parsed through that and then turned to look at Mycroft. “Are you telling me you get off on costumes?”

Mycroft didn’t look at him, instead trailed a finger over the damp patch of Greg’s tie. 

“Tell me Inspector,” he said and looked up, mischief in his eyes and lust in his lips. Greg’s throat went tight, “do you still happen to be in possession of your uniform?”


End file.
